The Examined Life
Is Not Worth Reliving

Visions of Ministry After
Rev. John E. Gibbons’ Sabbatical

Delivered Sunday, February 22, 1998

At First Parish in Bedford

(To get rid of everything and begin a new life is an archetypal dream. In Paris, Ludwig Bemelmans met a clochard who had been a schoolteacher but had tossed his old life out the window. Bemelmans quotes him in a book of his selected writings, Tell Them It Was Wonderful).

And also from the writings of Bertolt Brecht:

This being the first day of the rest of my life and the beginning of my ministry after a sabbatical, there is something about the images of those two readings that catches my attention and, I hope, yours. I'm sure that I am not alone in the periodic fantasy of ridding myself of all the accumulated stuff that weighs life down. Out the window with it all! And I am aware — though sometimes only dimly — of the ways that we all go numb to life: compassion can turn to apathy and apathy to meanness. How difficult it is to feel real feelings.

A sabbatical is supposed to be a time for all of us to throw our usual ways out the window and to remember what it is we're trying to do in the first place.

This process of forgetting what it is that we're trying to do happens to institutions as well as to individuals, and I recall the thriving New England church and its church school that at one point supplemented its income with bean suppers and at the bean suppers they served brown bread, a delicacy that — when we're not eating bagels or sushi — remains well thought of hereabouts. Well, as things went along, the church declined — they had only occasional services and they closed the church school — but the bean suppers were still going strong. And people really liked that brown bread; so being thrifty they made some extra loaves of brown bread to sell if people asked for more. And pretty soon, the church services went from occasional to very few, and the bean suppers weren't doing too well either but... the brown bread business was very good. This is a true story! The church, at the end, was nothing but a brown bread factory. Their sole activity was making brown bread and selling it.

That's what this sermon is about. Getting our bearings again, or getting my bearings again. Well, where do we begin?

First of all, I want to tell the truth about this sabbatical, and that is to say that it was not nearly as much fun as you may imagine or I imagined; and that despite our rhetoric about refreshment and renewal, I am for the most part the same minister as I used to be. And you are, for the most part, the same congregation.

I am who I am. I have not become the perfect person or the perfect minister — I am painfully aware of how human I am. And though I think that our relationship is essentially healthy and good, I know all too well the ways in which I am not the minister that some of you may hope for. I was with a colleague once when he cried for having missed the opportunity to be with a parishioner at a particular moment. I too cry for the moments I've missed; for the words I didn't say or the ones I can't take back; for the times I've been less the minister, less the person I want to be. Part of the idealism of a sabbatical is to so throw oneself out the window as to be free and now, perhaps, I am a little changed; but mostly I am who I was and remain.

Now just to be fair, though you may have changed a bit— Marty did lose quite a bit of weight — you are mostly who you were.

I actually heard myself gushing to a parishioner the other day that, coming back from sabbatical, this actually felt like a new job. And then I went to a Parish Committee meeting on Wednesday that was one of the most difficult I have ever attended (it ended at 11:45 p.m. and nearly every member went home and imbibed a couple of tumblers of liquid memory-eraser before bed) and I was thinking that a new job in Timbuktu might be a very nice thing. No, the sabbatical has not freed us from the weight of meetings or difficult decisions.

You know, churches and the relationship between churches and their ministers is so often clouded by romantic expectations and romantic illusions. Our hopes for one another and for what we may be together are so high. Ministers and congregations are "matched." Before we agree to live together, there is this elaborate mating dance called candidating week — remember that? When I arrived here in 1990, I even wrote a newsletter column in which I compared myself to your mail-order bride — a description in retrospect that was over-the-top, inappropriate and, frankly, dangerous.

Even in the most boundaried of relationships, a minister and a congregation live in a world of perpetual-angst where we try not just to have a good working relationship, but a relationship that represents the highest of human ideals — beauty, fairness, compassion, dignity, truth. We expect our relationship and our community to live our values of compassion, love and justice — on earth, as it is in heaven. I too expect those things or I wouldn't be a minister; and I think that somewhere deep down, someplace in your soul you too hope for a place and a community and a way of living that calls you to your best self.

So, obviously enough, we're faced with the fact that we're human beings and somewhat lower than the gods. Last week someone asked me what it is that rats see when they look up and see bats hanging from the rafters? You know what they see? Angels! It's all a matter of perspective, but it doesn't take too long in any relationship (be it with one's partner or one's friend or one's boss, or employee, or parishioner or minister) to discover that we're all a little lower than the angels.

A woman I once knew said that she used to look forward to coming to church to get some strength. Now she wonders if she has the strength to go to church. That was at another church, by the way.

And it was the Catholic priest Andrew Greeley who once said, "Search for the perfect church if you will; when you find it, join it, and realize that on that day it becomes something less than perfect."

It is not so difficult to be in love, rare though that may be; it is much more difficult, more real and rare to act lovingly. It is easier to espouse our values than to live them; and even still, our living inevitably is less than perfect.

What I am trying to say is that I hope our relationship is maturing. Last fall I preached a sermon titled, "Maturity as a Form of Spirituality," and in it I suggested that Unitarian Universalism is an attempt to foster human maturity. We are not here because we're on the "one way road to heaven," seeking salvation and pie in the sky, by and by, when we die. We're not here to flagellate ourselves, to damn, condemn, judge, preach hellfire and brimstone. We are here to live our values as best we can; to affirm what we hope to become; in the real world, dressed neither in robes of white nor in ashes and sackcloth, but dressed in this skin, here, now, in this life.

In my experience at least, most people don't change dramatically — I'm pretty much the person I was eight weeks ago and you're pretty much the same congregation. Nonetheless, people do make small subtle shifts which, if considered over a lifetime, can be significant.

So what is my vision of the post-sabbatical ministry we share? I'll begin by speaking personally of the small subtle shifts I hope, I'll try, I intend to make.

This is not quietism, in fact it may be just the opposite. Someone once said, "if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention." That's my attitude, by the way, about this war we're threatening. I do not share the opinion of UUA president John Buehrens whose opinion I put in our order of service. But whatever your opinion, most of us will not be passionate on any subject unless we are quiet enough to hear the still small, sometimes-screaming, sometimes-calming voice within.

I want to say more about my post-sabbatical resolutions. Have you seen the movie As Good As it Gets? It's about Melvin Udall, the meanest man in New York City, whose sneering self-absorbed bigotry hides a sick lonely soul suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder that is destroying his life. His sole human connection is Carol, a neighborhood waitress. There is a wonderful moment in the film when Carol challenges Melvin to compliment her. He has a hard time, but finally admits:

"I've got this, ah, 'ailment.' My doctor, a shrink, told me that in 50 to 60 percent of the cases, a pill really helps. I hate pills. Very dangerous things, pills. I'm using the word 'hate' here about pills. My compliment to you is that after you said you could never sleep with somebody like me, the next morning I started taking the pills."

Carol is puzzled. "I don't quite get how that's a compliment for me."

Melvin says simply, "You make me want to be a better man."

And there's a long pause before Carol replies, "That's maybe the best compliment of my life."

When I look back on my sabbatical, I've spent a lot of time with some courageous inspiring people. People in Transylvania whose liberal religion and open-hearted spirit has endured centuries of oppression. Last week I told you about the churches in Portsmouth, NH and Brewster, MA and Ft. Myers, FL which are oases of hope in their communities — places of creativity and spiritual deepening, places that stand up for social justice, places that reach out to be welcoming, affirming and accepting. These places, these people, and coming home to all of you make me want to take my pills — to do whatever it takes to be a better minister, a better person.

I've really said all that I'm going to say in this sermon, but I don't want to end quite yet. For what happened to me on Wednesday night at that difficult Parish Committee meeting is something that could easily happen to you. Our best intentions, our best visions can be sideswiped by heavy doses of reality.

Call this a sermon postscript or a pulpit editorial or what-you-like, but I think it is only fair for me to note what is right before our eyes. In the next few weeks, we as a congregation and we as individuals will be faced by very big decisions regarding the expansion of our building. Some of you have awaited these decisions for years; some of you have wished they would go away; some of you are hearing this for the first time today. We face proposals for changes in this sanctuary. We face decisions about how to respond to a building addition project budget that is significantly higher than we had hoped it would be. And, not least of all, we face personal decisions about our own financial commitment.

Here's what I ask. First of all, I ask that you — in general and not necessarily in particular — support the project. It's our future; it's our children's future; it represents our values. There's plenty of room to favor this and not that, downsize, upsize, change this, keep that — but in general — it would be very helpful for us to move forward mostly together. Our space needs are real. This will be hard work for a while and we need one another. Whether you are able to financially contribute greatly or moderately or minimally or not at all, you're needed in this conversation and it's time now for us to address the hows and not the ifs. I ask that you speak up about the hows: questions, concerns, doubts, preferences, all are welcome and needed. Brickbats and potshots, bad. Speaking the truth in love, good.

I also ask that you support the people who have taken this project this far. I don't ask that you agree with them about all things; by all means ask your questions, voice your concerns, state your opinions. But there are a lot of people who have selflessly invested their hearts and souls and done more than attend a few difficult meetings. Hold their hearts and souls carefully, respectfully, without squeezing, without rancor, lovingly.

I ask that you think carefully, not buy a pig in a poke. I also ask that you be bold and take risks. Don't take foolish risks with the church's money or your money. This, however, is a church and we aspire to be religious people. In support of their values, churches and religious people are supposed to take more risks than others. Your risk and your bold may be different from mine or the next person's and that's OK; but risk and be bold, nonetheless.

And one more thing: let's not take ourselves too seriously; let's have some fun with this process; let's be imaginative, hopeful and of good cheer. We're in this, after all, because good and growing and aspiring things are happening here.

The examined life is not worth reliving. That line actually helped me feel better after the kick in the head of being thrown out of India. But it's applicable elsewhere. All of us suffer real and imaginary traumas — lives disrupted — we look to the future with dread sometimes and anticipation at other times; but really what we have is now. You and I are not dramatically different than we were eight weeks ago; but perhaps there's a growing maturity, and some small, subtle, someday significant shifts in each of our lives. We can still believe in and experience new beginnings.

My vision of our future together is remarkably short-sighted: here and now, there is nowhere I'd rather be than this place; there is no one with whom I'd rather be than with you.

And may we all take to heart the motto of poet Langston Hughes: "I play it cool and dig all jive. That's the reason I stay alive. My motto, as I live and learn, is dig and be dug in return." Amen.